


Shrapnel and the Aftermath

by stunningepiphanies



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Major Character Undeath, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: "Maybe his mum was right about the afterlife, and he’s landed himself in hell after all. Not that, you know, she told him he was going to hell, he’d just always thought that’s where he would head up in the event that she wasn’t full of shit."Harry survives Shambhala, and he makes do.





	

Harry wakes up slow, to the sound of gently beeping machines and something _woosh_ ing mechanically and low voices at his right. His throat burns like nothing he’s ever felt, like someone took sandpaper and lovingly polished every surface of his insides all the way down to his stomach. That’s nothing though, not compared to….well. Everything else. A grenade blast will do that to you, he thinks weakly. He can’t move, either, can’t make a sound though he tries with all his might. It’s like there’s an epic struggle going on within himself, and yet the sounds outside of him go softly on, undisturbed.

He’s certain he must be hallucinating the sounds, synapses misfiring wildly in the moments before death. Except, death doesn’t happen. Every moment is extended, dull, _perfect_ agony, but he’s sure that it’s been more that a few minutes. Maybe he’s already dead? Maybe his mum was right about the afterlife, and he’s landed himself in hell after all. Not that, you know, she told him he was going to hell, he’d just always thought that’s where he would head up in the event that she wasn’t full of shit. He always assumed that his personal hell would be more full of slow walkers and Nathan Drake succeeding at everything Harry had ever failed. But constant pain and immobility and deep, pervading blackness works too.

“Harry?”

The voices to his right suddenly crystallize, forming into one and his chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the pain. It’s soft, feminine but smoky, a voice that’s pervaded his dreams for months. At first it doesn’t seem right that Chloe would be in hell with him, but he supposes that fits too. She’s just right there, and he can’t reach out and touch her, hold her, tell her he doesn’t forgive her even though he does. He tries to move one more time, determined to reach out somehow, but nothing changes.

At least, he thinks nothing changes. The sounds outside do, though.

“Harry? Harry, you’re- quick! Charlie, call the doctor! Harry, we’re right he...” He’s faintly aware of movement, but he can feel himself fading back into blackness already. He struggled too much, and now he’s paying for it. Pity, he thinks. He would’ve braved the pain to hear more of her voice. It's It's a good kind of torture.

\---

When Harry wakes up again there’s no voices, but the pain is back with a vengeance. He’s not sure how long he’s conscious before the black takes him, but when it does he’s praying to a god he never believed in that he doesn’t have to do this again.

\---

There’s no way to tell the passage of time, stuck here as he is, but when Harry wakes up again something tells him it’s been a while. The pain that pinned him down before is, well, it’s still there, but it’s not as intense—think getting hit by a moped at full speed rather than a full on truck. The fire in his throat’s not as bad either, and for the first time he can feel himself swallowing. It’s like there had been something there before and he just never realized. He breathes one deep, pained and ragged breath, relishing the feel of actual _movement_. His chest is on fire but he can feel it moving under...something. A sheet, maybe. A shirt. Everything’s still dark, but he doesn’t _care_. All this is starting to feel less like hell and more like, he’s not sure, like survival? He survived the blast? With a bloody bullet to the chest? It’s an odd feeling. He dropped that grenade at peace with the end of his life, that if he was going out he was going to take someone with him. Pity it was the blonde reporter—she seemed alright, if a bit shit with her taste in men. But if it hurt Drake, he would have to take it.

The fog continues to lift over what feels like hours—and it very well could be, he’s got no clue—and slowly, Harry begins testing the limits of his consciousness. Talking is right out, apparently, but his throat hurts so bad that he doesn’t really mind it. He can’t see either, but something about the blackness tells him it might be something covering his eyes rather than an actual loss of sight. He can feel one arm and even weakly twitch his fingers, but the other is oddly numb. He can’t feel it or move it, but he ignores the faint alarm bells in the back of his head. His legs are in the same state, and he’s so relieved that at least one of them is working that he doesn’t think about what it means that the other one isn’t. As far as Harry’s concerned, he’s not totally paralyzed so everything will work out eventually.

He’s always been tragically optimistic.

\---

It continues like that over, shit, it must be days. Time is jumbled here, wherever here is. He’s come to accept that it isn’t hell, but it’s close. Hospitals make him nervous, as do doctors, but if he’s trapped here and they’re keeping him alive he supposes he can stand a little suffering for it. He’s never awake when they check on him, and the only time he’s heard another voice since Chloe’s was a few rounds ago when he heard a child screaming in what he assumes is the next room. Not in pain, he’s relieved to hear, but the kind of bratty screaming a toddler told “no” likes to haul out.

Little shit.

He’s lost count how many times he’s fallen asleep and woken up now, but this time seems to be the same as the others at first. Machines softly beeping, muffled steps in the hall, his own labored breathing, the usual. But slowly, Harry becomes aware of something else, another sound nearly drowned out by all the others. Soft shifting somewhere to his left. Steady, measured breaths. Denim brushing against denim. _Someone’s in the room with him_.

“Everyone says hi, by the way,” the person says finally, and his heart does a nasty little flip in his ribcage. _Chloe._. “Well, Nate says you can go to hell and stay there, and Elena says she hopes you’re happy with what you’ve done, but I read between the lines.” She chuckles, a deep, throaty thing that, if he were in any kind of passable shape, would normally have him flashing her those slick, oily smiles that somehow always work.

“Charlie sends actual regards, bless him,” she continues, blissfully unaware that she’s got an eavesdropper. “And so do Lanie and Franco and Jim.” She sighs wearily, and Harry can hear her shift in her seat. He gets the sense that she’s been at this a while. “Charlie would be here now but I think it makes him a little ill, seeing you like this. Oh, and we finally decided on telling everyone it was a blasting accident, so your reputation is officially intact. Not that you deserve it.” She snorts. “ _Or_ their pity.”

Ouch. The words, but the venom in her voice hurts worse. Again, he supposes it’s what he deserves for dragging her into a mess with a psychotic Serb and a personal grudge the general shape and size of Wales. It almost hurts worse than her shagging Nate, but there’s just the tiniest bit of insecurity she hit on that point that she won’t be able to hit on again. He’s sick of this fucking pain, quite frankly. _Shut up_ , he thinks in her general direction, or he _thinks_ he thinks. _Just shut the fuck up_. He’s so used to speaking into the echo chamber of his head by now that he doesn’t even consider it could be going somewhere else. Why would it? His throat is on fire and, as far as he's concerned, everything that makes noise got burned up in the blast. 

There’s more movement from Chloe’s direction, and he suddenly feels her presence right next to him. She must have moved closer, maybe to torture him a little more. “H...Harry?” The question is soft, hesitant, surprising in its gentleness. Moments ago she was fine with dressing him down from the other side of the room, but now... what changed in, what, thirty seconds? “Harry, are you awake?” 

There’s pressure at his left hand—her hand!—and without a second thought he squeezes back, and again he thinks _I said shut up_.

Chloe chokes back a sob, and for a moment Harry is morbidly pleased. _Yeah, scold him like he’s some schoolboy, but when you can tell he’s actually listening you change your tune pretty quick, lover girl._ Except, he abandons that train of thought just as quickly because he might be a right bastard, but that’s almost too cruel. “I’m...oh _christ_ ,” she whispers, the waver in her voice stubbornly refusing to turn to tears, “I’ll get the doctor, alright?” He can feel her moving, and this time there’s nothing weak about his grip. He clamps down on her hand as hard as he can, and while he rightly assumes it’s not enough to stop her from leaving, it’s enough to send a message.

“Don’t...go.”

Harry can hear his own voice now, and he almost wishes he hadn’t. It’s raspy, sharp like he’s gargled with broken glass and gin, then smoked a carton of unfiltered cigarettes. He’s always put a lot of pride into his voice, as his number one tool in his bag of tricks. Maybe he wasn’t the best looking bloke, but he knew he had the skills to talk his way into any pants or party or locked door he had a mind to. Men loved it, women loved it more, and now...now it matches the rest, he supposes.

Chloe is laughing again, more shocked than amused this time. “Alright,” she agrees, “alright. But I’m not going to shut up, you hear me?” She squeezes his hand tight, and he feels a gentle weight on his chest. Of course, it feels more like an anvil targeted right onto his gunshot wound, and if he were able he’d probably shove her off.

Or say something rude. Either way.

“Chloe?” The question is soft, strained, drowned out by a lot of pain.

“What is it?”

He tries to tell her she's on his bullet hole, but he just can't anymore. It hurts to much to form the words. 

\---

Once his doctor gets the news that he’s awake and talking, things start moving so fast Harry’s head nearly spins. What do he assumes is a veritable army of nurses and aides parade Inc and out of his room, taking vitals, blood, and measurements until he's been poked and prodded more than a discount prostitute. 

Chloe is ushered out of the room at some point, something about needing more space for the equipment and personnel. That doesn't stop his mum and dad from sweeping in a few hours later, loud and unnecessary as they usually are. Mum weeps and wails, and tries very hard to restrain herself from hugging him tightly to her chest. He still can't see—they'll remove the bandages later tonight, they assure him—but he assumes dad’s doing a bang up job physically holding her down. 

Dad is quieter, but more to the point. “See,” he says, patting at Harry’s knee that isn't numb, “I told you, didn't I? This contracting mess was going to get you in trouble. And now look at you.”

Harry just coughs in response. “Thanks, dad.”

He knows everyone is dancing around something, he could tell from the moment the parade of professionals started. It's in the way they whisper, how they cut themselves off when discussing his condition. His parents are the biggest tell, though. Mum bursts into tears without provocation at odd intervals, and when she's not when she's not sobbing she's doing that thing where she's over-cheery and optimistic for no good reason. He knows that tactic. That's how she was when the family cat got hit by a car and when his nan died. 

Harry can guess what the bad news is, even before his doctor takes the bandages off to confirm. The grenade blast cost him an arm and a leg, literally. On some level he appreciates the humor in it, but honestly he’s too busy trying not to lose his absolute _shit_ to truly take it for the comedy gold it is. He’s lost an eye, too, though in the grand scheme of things it's not the most distressing thing about this whole ordeal. He's lost a little depth perception, but he can still see perfectly fine. He'll be able to wear an eyepatch, he thinks. It'll look dashing, and he'll have a built in pirate costume for Halloween. Patch and peg leg and everything! 

Oh, look at that, he's edging on hysterical. 

“Thankfully,” the doctor drones, oblivious to Harry’s total breakdown, “there wasn’t any need for grafting, which frankly is a miracle. You’ll have extensive scarring, of course, but it won’t be anywhere near the level we first thought. The shrapnel,” he says, gesturing to Harry’s chest in general, “has mostly been removed, but there are still some clusters we need to attend to. Right now, I feel your condition is still a little tenuous, so perhaps in a few weeks we'll revisit the possibility of removing it.”

“And...my face?” It still hurts to talk, but his number one _fixable_ concern is worth a little throat bleed. If he’s going to be ugly for the rest of his life, he might as well shut it all down right now, fuck.

“Well,” the doctor says, leafing through a few papers Harry assumes are his reports, “there’s going to be some scarring as well, but it can be mitigated by plastic surgery. The primary concern I have right now is with the orbital fracture on your right side. That's going to need some significant attention in the near future.” Translation: he’ll be looking like Quasimodo for a time yet, but it's not a lost cause. 

Harry doesn't bother asking about his missing limbs, and he barely listens to the doctor when he discusses it anyway. Half of his left leg was left in Shambhala, and his right arm was just beyond saving. It's back in Nepal, too—they did most of the life-saving work there, apparently, and he only was shipped back to London within the past month. Oh, and there's another thing—he's been out for _three months_. It's 2010 now, he's missed Bonfire Night and Christmas and, worst of all, _New Year's Eve_. He coma’ed through his favorite hookup holiday of them all, while the world outside celebrated a new decade. He wonders idly what Chloe was doing then. Who was she kissing as the world turned over? 

He doesn’t get to ask. After she leaves that first time, she never comes back.

\---

“Chloe? It’s me. Not sure if you’ve still got this number, but it’s worth a try, right? I’ve never been able to take being ignored for an answer, you know, ask all of my exes. Heh.

Funny. Is that what we are?

No, shit, no, I didn’t- they’ve pumped me full of medicine again, I’m not right in the head. Forget I called.”

_Beep._

\---

A month on, and Harry's made enough improvement that it's safe enough for him to be moved out into the ward with the riff-raff. Paying for the private room isn't terribly expensive with the Lazarebitch money he's got hidden away, but spending all day in pain with nothing but daytime TV is starting to kill what's left of his soul. Charlie Cutter comes to see him on Valentine’s Day, arms full of roses and a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates. Harry one ups him with an extensive list of pet names, and Cutter only gives up the charade of loving boyfriend when Harry leans in for a kiss and squeezes his arse. He’s never been very good at gay chicken, anyway, and it’s nice to see at least this is one thing that hasn’t changed.

They sit there for a while, eating chocolate and talking about everything Harry missed. “There was that new James Cameron movie,” Cutter says in-between mouthfuls of nougat, “Avatar? The one what with the blue cat people?”

“Was it any good?”

He shrugs. “It was shit, but I saw it twice.”

“ ‘course you did.” He’s always had awful taste in movies, since they were children. “So, that’s it then? Bad movies and no gossip? I’m glad I was in the coma, mate, skipped all the boring parts.”

“End of the year, not much going on besides new movies. That, and the whole business with you coming back all stumpy.” Cutter lazily dodges a truffle aimed at his eye, catching it easily and popping it into his mouth. “With some bollocks story about getting in the way of some dynamite and Chloe insisting she was your fianceé so she could stay in the room.”

Harry frowns. “Not sure what you mean by that.” He still wasn’t clear on the story Drake and Chloe had come up with—something about blasting rubble out of a cave wall that had gone horribly wrong. He hadn't pressed for details, scared to break the carefully curated story to his family in case they started questioning. And the fianceé business was new information as well.

“Oh, come _on_ Harry,” he laughs, “you don’t honestly think I’d believe you’d get yourself blown up like that? You’re not near as clever as you think you are, but you’re not stupid. Or bad at what you do.” He points to Harry’s chest like it’s all he needs to prove his point. “Look mate, you’ve got a bullet hole in you.”

“That was...fluke. My gun went off when-” Harry sees the laser guided look of incredulity his friend’s shooting at him, and he just gives up. “No, you’re absolutely right. It’s rubbish.” He sighs, sagging into his pillows. So much for _that_ cover.

Cutter, the great bastard, looks entirely too pleased with himself. “So what was it, then? Landmine? Jeep off the edge of a cliff? Crumbling building?” If Harry had an arm on that side, he’d reach out and punch him in the arm. That’s going to take getting used to.

“A little from column A, a little from column C. Grenade in a crumbling temple.” He frowns, rubbing at the place where Lazarević shot him. It’s healing nicely, but sometimes he’ll feel a twinge of pain there, like for a moment he’s been shot all over again. “I was shot, and then the grenade...” He trails off, unsure how to frame it all so he won’t look like a bloody monster. “It’s, well, first you have to understand, this job, it was high risk but retire _ten fold_ on the back end. I was already with Chloe, and then I started thinking-”

“Woah.” Cutter puts a giant paw out then, slowing his roll pretty effectively. “Not here for your life story, chum. Just want to know what happened, is all.”

 _Oh, thank god._ The last thing Harry wants to do right now is relive the entire Nepal affair, as he's taken to calling it in his own head. Makes it seem a little more professional than the emotional shitshow it really was. He doesn't want to think about Drake looking at him all eager and trust when he showed up with a photo of a lamp and a plan to infiltrate the museum. He _really_ doesn't want to think about finding Chloe cornered with Drake and his reporter, the slick, cold feeling of betrayal curling in his gut and rapidly fermenting into a need to see the Drake bleeding out from a gunshot. And he definitely doesn't need to feel that shame when he thinks about the grenade and the reporter’s pained screams.

The momentary quiet stretches out, becomes something thicker and more awkward. It's never like this between them, never a moment unfilled by some kind of noise or action. It's desperately uncomfortable, but for the life of him, Harry can't figure out how to break it.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to. Cutter does it for him. “You wouldn't ever sell _me_ out for money, would you?”

It shocks him enough that he jumps a little, looks into his friend’s eyes with something bordering on hurt. He's unpleasantly surprised to find there’s no humor in Cutter’s eyes, just genuine curiosity and something that might be concern. In that moment, Harry’s not so sure Drake didn't talk. The bastard. 

“You’re my best mate, Charlie.”

Cutter frowns. “Yeah, and sometimes I wear women’s underwear, and none of that’s relevant right now, mate.”

The truth, the _real_ truth, is that he'd sell out most people for enough money. He would’ve sold out Sam Drake as easily as he sold out his brother, and he'd adored Sam. Nate had just been a culmination of several years of grudges and jealousy and unexamined feelings—that's why it had gone so sideways and bloody. Anyone else, it probably would have ended at the prison. But Charlie? 

“No, mate. You're the only one who gets that distinction, too, so cherish that.”

Thats a lie. He's certain he’d never sell out Chloe, either. Even after everything. _Especially_ after everything. 

\---

“Darling, I haven’t seen your fiancee in weeks. Where’s she gone off to?”

“I dunno, mum. She said she just couldn’t handle all of this and left. Threw the ring at me and everything. I haven’t seen her since.”

Harry feels a gentle hand and a squeeze on the shoulder he can’t quite see anymore. “What a cunt.”

\---

At first Harry thought all this would just fuel his grudge against Drake even more, pull it into hatred territory. But the longer he stares at the place his leg was and at the stump where his arm isn’t, he just feels empty. All that frustration, all the indignant anger and resentment just isn't there anymore, plucked right out of his head along with his bad eye. At night, when he’s alone and everyone else is asleep, Harry thinks long and hard about whether it’s even worth continuing on like this. He can’t work anymore, right out. You can’t break into places on the down-low when you’re sans a hand and leg. Or maybe you can, but it would take him years to hone that skill, and he’s already staring down the barrel of the end of his career in the next ten years anyway.

It wouldn’t be hard to go out, really. His parents would be sad, and so would his sister, but no one else would give half a fuck. He can’t imagine his funeral would be filled with wailing mourners. Maybe Charlie making an obligatory appearance. Drake would probably show up cock out, ready to piss all over his grave the second he was in the ground. No real friends, no kids, no Chloe. 

God, it always goes back round to Chloe in the end, doesn’t it? Harry hasn’t seen her in weeks and weeks, it’s like she just vanished after she knew he could hear her. Why was she even there in the first place, talking to him like he could hear her? Why was she there when he woke up the first time? Surely, he thinks, surely she hates him. Probably never liked him much to begin with, considering she was shagging Drake from minute one. Frankly, he’s surprised she bothered to ever drag his mutilated body out of that temple like she did. It couldn’t have been easy; he’s so much bigger than she is, even with a few inches and limbs knocked off. Why did she even risk it, drag a bastard like him to safety when he’s just tried to kill their friend in front of her?

And it’s around that time every night, when the thoughts about her get deeper and deeper, that Harry gives up and he lets himself get taken by the pain medicine. He’s never been terribly good at asking himself the hard questions, and since he can’t self-medicate with alcohol, opiates do quite nicely.

The doctors catch on pretty quick, though. And after that, nothing helps.

\---

Drake comes to see him in April, with the pretty blonde reporter nowhere in sight and a shiny gold ring conspicuously glinting on his left hand. He never has been slow about things. 

It’s as uncomfortable as one would expect, two men who fucked each over so completely, one maybe more so than the other, in the same room and not even being allowed to punch it out. 

“What happened, Harry?” Not Flynn, _Harry_. Fucking hell, he doesn’t need this today. Or ever.

“Well, you were there. Gunshots, explosions, a daring rescue or two. It was a regular Indiana Jones film. I _assume_ , I was unconscious for the last bit.” In return Drake gives him as dry a look as he can muster, but Harry can still see the shadow of hurt in his eyes. Not anger, but real hurt. Fuck, that’s almost worse.

“What do you want me to say?” He shrugs. “You were shagging my girl, coming after all of it. You were supposed to _stay_ in that cell, y’know. Until it was all over and done, and you couldn’t muck everything up like you usually do.”

“‘Scuse me?” He’s offended, as he probably should be. Most people in their line of work don’t appreciate being fucked over so completely and left to rot. Most people _get over it_ , thought. If everyone who’s ever let someone take the fall for a crime refused to work together again, there wouldn’t be much of an active black market for antiquities and treasure hunting. “First of all, Chloe came on to _me_ , and secondly-”

“And secondly, you couldn't conceive of a world that didn't need you to immediately save it, right? Had to be the hero _again_ , get all the girls and the glory and the _cash_.” He spits the words out like they're something nasty, milk he didn't check for spoilage or rotten meat, or something equally as upsetting. The hate is still absent, but he can let himself be bitter. He thinks he deserves that much. 

But like usual, Drake just barrels on. “I thought we were friends, Flynn. All this time, you've never said _anything_ about this kind of shit, and all of a sudden you just hate me?” The hurt in his eyes flares, morphing into something angrier. “What the hell, man? I trusted you!” 

Harry snorts, and takes a sip of his juice. “You actually _trust_ people in this business, mate?”

\---

By June, Harry’s comfortable in the certainty he’ll never see Chloe again. It doesn’t make him feel better at all, but the un-prescribed pills help and most nights he’s out before he can start considering suicide or Shambala or her face again. Still, a lot’s happened in the past few months. He’s living on his own again, though there’s a nurse that comes every day to help with his physical therapy. He’s in the process of being fitted for a new leg, though in the interim he’s making do with a crutch. It’s a nightmare to get around in his flat, but it’s better than nothing. His face is better, thank christ, and his lopsided, shattered eye socket is finally even with the rest of his face again. Granted, there's no eye in there anymore, but small victories. The eyepatch really is dashing, he thinks, and so far it's more popular than his prosthetic eye. His little nephew, for one, thinks it’s absolutely _brilliant_ , so at least he has that. 

It's not terrible, he supposes. Thing could be worse. They could definitely be better- you know, he could have all his limbs, significantly more money, and Drake still locked up in prison- but it _could_ be worse. 

It's noon on a Sunday, absolutely pissing rain outside and Harry couldn't be more glad that his new flat doesn't leak like a sinking ship. Another thing he as to be thankful for- after all of his overseas medical bills and the like, he still had plenty of money left over from the first cash advance to move into a place that was built this century. Half the walls are just glass, and he can get a great view of the dreary city from up here. Though, on a day like this it just serves to make him feel more grey than normal. At least there's no distractions from his map work for Charlie. Before the _accident_ , it could’ve been something they did together on site. But now, as things are, he has to make do with being the remote. At least, he thinks, he knows the setup of the manor well enough that he doesn't have to case the place. 

Charlie’s trying to make a thing of it, make Harry the remote eyes and ears so he can still have a hand in thing and be helpful. Harry isn't about to deny his friend that, coping with his friend’s loss by fashioning him into some kind of felonious Barbara Gordon. They've had each others’ backs almost their whole lives, and if it makes him think that he’s still safe if Harry’s sat at home with a radio, that's fine. It's all a load of bollocks, though, just a story. Harry knows he's been rendered useless, knows this is his punishment for going above and beyond the unspoken rules and regulations of fucking a partner over in their world.

The knock at his door is sweet relief, because he's starting to get something of a migraine from staring at blueprints all morning. The promise of delivery lunch is about all that was sustaining him at that point, and so he practically races to the foyer to meet the face of his savior. 

It's not his curry. 

Standing there in the corridor in front of his apartment is Chloe, soaking wet. In a flash, he recalls that she could never get used to carrying an umbrella with her, so unused to rainy weather as she was. Some things can't be changed, he supposes. But regardless of relative dampness, Chloe still cuts an intimidating figure. He had loved that about her once, but the way she stares at him now, unwavering and steely, just makes him feel unbalanced. Like he’ll just topple over right here in his foyer and show his belly in surrender. And the worrisome thing is, he'd be glad for it. 

Chloe smiles. “I think we need to talk.” He looks down, and sees something clutched in her fist. A flash of brilliant blue. 

For once in his life, Harry’s the one without a witty remark. He steps aside, pulling the door open wide. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes! 
> 
> 1) I've played with the time-line of UC2, here. I'm not sure around when in 2009 it's supposed to take place, so I guess the tail end is as good as any. 
> 
> 2) I know nothing about the NHS, y'all, I'm sorry for anything weird. But research tells me that you can get private rooms if you pay out of pocket. Also, apparently in the UK opiates are rarely given to patients and even then, sparingly. I'd assume a close proximity frag grenade would call for, you know, the big painkillers.


End file.
